The Broker
by Rogue Requiem
Summary: Crime. Such a profitable market in Gotham City. It even has its own submarkets: henchmen, drugs, real estate. That last one is especially crucial. After all, without it, where can a weary villain go to lay low and plot his next scheme for the Batman? See, that card you're holding is very special. Give the Broker a call. He'll set you up right. (Origins/Asylum/City-Verse)
1. Prologue: Sherman Fine

**A/N: Yes. The time has come where I finally write a Batman fanfiction. How exciting! How incredible! How...extremely daunting! This is a universe that is near and dear to my heart, and I am going to do everything I can to portray it accurately. I got inspired for this particular story when re-playing Arkham City, and I found again the reference to a character called the Broker. I loved that he bought and sold real estate for the Rogue Gallery's use, and it got me wondering... With so many colorful characters in Gotham, how does this man manage to interact with so many and stay alive and-what I assume-sane? This story will explore that factor as well as provide character studies for many of the Rogues. The plotline here is going to begin with Origins, detail a little of Asylum, and continue on with City. And with any future games there are. **

**Finally, I found very little information about the Broker's backstory or what his character is like, so I've taken the liberty to invent most of it myself. I hope it agrees with you. And I hope you enjoy this project as I will no doubt enjoy writing it.**

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Fandom: Batman (Arkham Origins/Asylum/City)

Title: _The Broker_

Prologue: Sherman Fine

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When Sherman Fine was a little boy, he believed he was destined for a lackluster life. After all, his parents had decided to saddle him with a name like Sherman, and to his admittedly unimaginative younger self, he couldn't imagine that his future was capable of a shred of greatness. He never humored dreams of becoming an astronaut or a cowboy like his fellow peers; rather, Fine always envisioned himself stuck in a stiff cubical job, wedged between similar hunchbacked workers with glazed-over eyes. It wasn't glamorous by any means, but it did offer stability, which was what he'd really wanted.

Much of his younger self's cynicism was a direct result of where Fine and his family had decided to call home. Gotham City was not operating at its best when Fine was a boy. Some of his earliest memories involved his parents screaming to each other about how Gotham's Golden Age was long dead and gone. His lack of creativity aside, Sherman was a sharp enough kid to realize his parents weren't screaming blame at each other; it was desperation.

And then, his father lost the restaurant that had rested comfortably in the Fine family for the past three generations, first to bankruptcy, then to debt, then to the mob. That was the moment Sherman realized you couldn't reach too far or for too much. Not in Gotham City. Even when the Wayne family attempted to stimulate the city's economy, Sherman recognized their sudden, violent deaths shortly after as a way of reminding himself of that fact. Going against the tide in Gotham was certain suicide. You had to ride the tide, had to cut your losses when you could, or drown.

Ironically enough, Sherman earned a scholarship to Gotham University in his senior year of high school for completing a yearlong Economics project. With his father dead from a mob hit and the family income quickly dwindling, Sherman knew a generous government donation was the only way he'd breach the barrier of higher education. By this time, Sherman had obtained a bit more ambition; a cubicle job no longer appealed to him. He required another career option, one that would allow him to blend in and fade into the background like a cubicle position would, but it would pay him more money to do so.

Law school was immediately eliminated. As were the humanities and much of the sciences. Instead, Fine slipped into the role of an Accounting major like it was a well-worn shoe, and as predicted, he quietly excelled there for two years.

But Gotham's tide changed again, and with it came something frightening. Something dangerous. A complete and utter game-changer.

The Batman.

And as if one weirdo in a cowl wasn't strange enough, others soon followed, each of them just as elemental as the Bat but nowhere near as heroic. Others who called themselves things like Black Mask, the Penguin, and Killer Croc, beings that sought out power, control, and destruction.

For the first time in his life, Sherman Fine found himself positively inspired.

So much so, that in the following semester, Sherman Fine quietly switched his major from Accounting to Real Estate, with a double minor in Business and Psychology on the side. His professors were all stunned at his sudden show of ambition, displayed most obviously at his switch from taking 14 hours a semester to over 20. But he had to do it. He had to get out, both from the university and into the city.

That's where his future was, after all, a future that hadn't even existed until _they _had. Coincidentally, that's where the money was too, and with it his stability.

After all, how can a villain even hope to combat a hero without having a decent place where he can safely plot his demise? Even more importantly, how can a villain carry out a plot without an available stage to perform it on?

Two years later and at 25 years of age, Sherman Fine graduated with top honors in Gotham University's School of Business with a degree in Real Estate.

That same day, Fine shrugged off his graduation robe and adjusted his black tie, tightening and straightening it so it rested proudly against his crisp, white shirt. The robe he quickly replaced with a black suit jacket, and Fine nimbly covered his muddy brown eyes with a stern pair of black sunglasses. A minute change, much less theatrical compared to the other costumed villains in the city, but it was enough. As simple as that, the Broker entered the scene in Gotham City.

And as predicted so many years ago, Sherman Fine remained but only in the background, unnoticed and unremarkable behind the sunglasses and the suit. It was the one thing the tides hadn't changed.

That was exactly how Fine liked it.

License in hand, the Broker steadily made contact with the criminal underworld in the city, and just like that, business boomed. With a market at an all-time high in demand but little in supply that wasn't forced or otherwise convinced, the Broker appeared as a godsend. At last, there was someone at their disposal who would gladly locate, buy, and sell property for them without allowing things like red tape or morality to get in the way. As for Sherman, he dealt amiable with the very same mobsters who'd disrupted his family's life. The way he looked at it, he owed them by assisting any way he could with their shady dealings. If the restaurant hadn't been seized, if his father—their family's only source of income—hadn't ended up with a bullet in his skull, Sherman wouldn't have humored higher education at all. He would have ended up in that cubicle job, still invisible but ultimately amounting to nothing.

Yes, the mob had his favor. But even still, Fine hoped for more. Craved it. He knew there were more exciting, more fulfilling deals to be made besides securing a warehouse for drug storage or a new penthouse for some higher-up _caporegime_ to _not_ use. Sherman Fine, however, was nothing if not patient. Hasty actions and frenzied scrambling had never appealed to him. He felt that the moment he showed such self-serving emotion to secure new business would be the same moment he would lose all of his current progress. And there'd be no hope in getting it back. He'd let the Batman seize all his assets before he allowed that to happen.

So the Broker waited.

And he waited. Waited but never wavered.

It was a fruitful philosophy, because eventually, good things did come to Sherman Fine. A month before Christmas, the Broker received a call that completely changed the way crime was conducted in Gotham by placing him firmly and permanently in the background.

Staring down at the phone in his hand, the Broker registered that the number was unknown. He was already intrigued. His direct number was hard to come by, having most of his calls fielded to him by a number of assistants he had on his payroll. Before he answered, he made a note to attempt a trace on the call to determine who was being so careful to contact him.

"This is Sherman Fine. State your business."

The voice that greeted him was young, male, and coated with arrogance. "I know _exactly _who you are, Mr. Fine. What I _want _to know is what you can do for me."

_Possible narcissist_, thought Fine about the owner of the voice. But he'd have to keep him talking or meet him in person to be sure.

"You have no introduction for me, sir?" said the Broker carefully. Scaring the man away was the last thing he wanted, though Sherman could tell he'd be a difficult customer.

"Oh, you'll know who I am soon enough," was the quick, confident response. Despite himself, the Broker raised his eyebrows in surprise. Very well, then.

"Then, let's not dance around each other any longer," he replied. "I'm certain you know what I specialize in, otherwise you would not have called. So what is it that you want?"

"So, you _are_ as astute as they say. Always nice to know this city isn't completely full of morons."

_Definitely a narcissist, _the Broker concluded. _Possibly an egomaniac as well._

The voice on the other end continued. "As you surmised, I need to purchase an estate. Nothing large. In fact, the less obvious, the better." That was surprising. The Broker had thought this man was the type who detested being ignored. Even so, his words were telling; they had crossed into the atmosphere Fine usually accustomed to deals where discretion was necessary. "Specifically, what I need is property that is difficult to locate and nearly impossible to break into."

"That shouldn't be a problem, sir. I—"

"_I wasn't finished, Broker!_" The man hissed into the phone, and the sudden venom it contained was enough for Sherman to forget any offense he may have normally felt at such an exchange. This abrupt change in character was too interesting. But just as quickly as it had come, the rage faded in the man's voice and the usual confidence returned. "In addition to passcode-only security, I need enough space to set up a number of surveillance monitors. But I know that's not a problem for you, Mr. Fine. What could be a problem is that I've heard you only deal with criminals."

The Broker knew that if anyone were watching him right now, they'd see his light-brown eyebrows peeking comically over his sunglasses. "You mean you are _not _a criminal, sir?"

The man scoffed. "Hardly. This city's underworld is a breeding ground for greed and stupidity. The only thing that makes it tolerable is knowing that the corrupt in Gotham don't even realize how idiotic they actually are, but soon they will. All of Gotham will know and will never let them forget."

"Last I checked, sir, blackmail is considered a criminal offense," ventured the Broker. He was assuming much, but from the way the man was talking, blackmail was a viable option. No wonder he needed a place to hide out for a while.

"Maybe so, Broker," the man said, and unmistakable pride and smugness tinted his voice. "But come Christmas Day, I'm sure you'll find out that the people of this city will greet it as a long-awaited gift. Something not even that ridiculous Batman idiot could give them."

_Now_ they were getting somewhere.

"Well, you are quite right," said the Broker. "I normally only deal with criminals. But for you, sir, I'm willing to make an exception. I'm sorry for saying so, but the…opportunity to assist you is too good to pass up." Riffling through the stacks of paper on his desk with one hand was cumbersome, but he soon found the page he was looking for. "Let's see, ah, yes, I do have something available in Burnley that I think would suit you perfectly. It's not very large—only three rooms, one of which is hidden—and the property is only accessible by elevator. The entrance is also hidden. Someone would have to use a bit of force to discover it. I've got all the necessary paperwork here, so leave all the legality to me. All I need is your payment and signature, and it's yours."

"That's all?" said the man, disbelievingly.

The Broker smiled. "I get that so often. Really says something about the lack of efficiency around here." The two shared a brief laugh that was more cynical than humorous. "Do you have a preference for a meeting place? I imagine someone as busy as you would like this done sooner rather than later."

"Indeed, but if it's all the same, Mr. Fine, I will be coming to you."

Taken aback by the sudden harassment in the man's voice, Sherman almost failed to register his words. "I confess I'd be very impressed if you could find me, s—"

"622 West Henry Street. Suite 206, am I right?" Not waiting for a response, the man gloated, "Of course I am."

And he was, and the Broker _was _impressed. Nevertheless, a scowl of frustration marred the Broker's otherwise plain features. Having his location pinned down wasn't his idea of a smart business practice, even if it was just by one person. And especially if it wasn't on his terms. It seems a move was in order after completing this deal.

"Fine, then," said the Broker. "When should I expect you?"

"When you least expect it, I'm sure."

There was no telling what that actually meant, but Sherman could hear the truth behind it. "Fair enough." The Broker smirked. "You're quite a puzzle, aren't you?"

"Oh, I prefer Enigma."

The line went dead in Fine's ear. As for the results of his later trace of the call to yield any sort of information about his client's location, well… Fine realized too late that he really shouldn't have bothered.

He was still getting used to the fact that more people than himself preferred to live like ghosts in Gotham City.

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**A/N: And there's the start! Let me know what you think. I have the chapters outlined with what Rogues will be featured when, but feel free to make suggestions. If I don't already have them down, I'll find a way to add them in. And most characters will be featured more than once, so get excited!**


	2. Ch 1: Broker, Interrupted

**A/N: I'm super excited for this story, so much so that I've already got another chapter for you guys. Let's hope I can keep this going!**

**A big, big thank you to **wouldyouliketoseemymask**,** Velvet Red Bullet**,** **and **a guest** for reviewing the prologue, and thanks to everyone who has favorited or put this in your story alerts so far. I hope I continue to amaze and amuse.**

**Disclaimer: Forgot last chapter, but I don't own anything in the Batman Universe or DC in general. If I did, some no good very bad things would happen-but it would still be better than the New 52, sooooo... There you have it. Now let's continue, shall we?**

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Fandom: Batman (Arkham Origins/Asylum/City)

Title: The Broker

Chapter 1: Broker, Interrupted

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On any typical day, Sherman Fine would begin his morning early with a routine he only broke on rare occasions. Never needing much sleep, he'd rise well before the sun did and turn on the news. As joyless as it could be, it was necessary for a man like him to keep abreast of local events. On some mornings, the incoming stories featuring the Batman, the GCPD, or some mob leader were better than anything reality television—which Fine swore was all scripted shit anyway—could offer. An hour later, he'd prepare his coffeemaker, brush his teeth, shower, shave, and then dress for the day. All of this took less than thirty minutes, Fine never being the high-maintenance type. (Even his recent turn with his finances hadn't changed that.) He'd return to the kitchen—which spilled open into his living room which in turn hosted yet another television—turn on the weather and traffic information, and finally fix himself a cup of coffee. Two spoonfuls of sugar and two spoonfuls of milk exactly. Then, he'd make a large breakfast usually consisting of two eggs over medium, three strips of bacon, two pieces of toast with raspberry jam, hash browns, and sometimes a bowl of cereal. He'd remind himself that he needed to add more fruit in his diet, but then would forget about the thought usually after tasting the bacon. By seven o'clock, he'd have all his personal affairs in order, and then it was strictly the job until his head hit the pillow later on—_much _later on—that night.

Some days, he would work from his computer and cellphone at home. The island in his kitchen provided more than enough space to work, and Fine was never the type to be easily distracted by his surroundings. The television never tempted him to indulge in slothful behaviors, and neither did his bed. As a matter of course, the only luxury Fine would afford himself was the moments he spent on his treadmill he'd squeezed into the living room. He'd walk miles on the thing while typing away frantically on his laptop, which rested comfortably in front of him on a shelf made for such a purpose, or while he made diagnostic calls to his associates about such and such a property or with locating potential clients. On days like that, he would chastise himself of the fact that he once believed a cubicle job would suit him. He could only imagine the slew of long-term back problems he had barely avoided.

On other days, it was necessary to go into the field. He preferred those days. Gotham wasn't the most glamorous city to behold, but like any place, it hosted its share of hidden gems and wondrous spectacles; being around such things every so often revitalized him, as did scouting or touring properties. It was the talks he had with his clients that held the real appeal to his job, however. Fine wasn't pretentious enough to consider himself a psychological expert, but the classes he'd taken in college had provided him with enough insight into the human psyche to guarantee him almost endless entertainment.

Even the average grunt was interesting to categorize in his mind. Sherman would make all kinds of hypotheses on why the person before him led the life of crime he did, never voicing any of them, of course. The client himself never knew an inkling of what Sherman thought of him, because all he saw before him was the unflinching seriousness of the Broker. To break character and reveal Sherman underneath it all went against his every principle, to say nothing of the very real possibility of losing business or endangering himself more than he already was. Shooting the messenger (or the bodyguard, or the thug, or the One Who Disappointed in general) was a popular trope in Gotham. He avoided playing that role at every chance he could.

So he kept to his routine while staying as flexible as possible. It'd given him nothing but success before.

Which was why he found himself on this particular morning putting that flexibility to work. No more than two days had passed since his mysterious phone call from a blackmailer who was convinced he was a hero, and already Fine had his preciously crafted routine completely uprooted.

It began with a series of harsh knocks pounding on Sherman Fine's front door at four in the morning.

Luckily for Fine, he was just getting up when he heard the racket. Despite this, a flash of annoyance stirred in his breast and crept into his movements. He didn't bother straightening the covers of his queen-sized mattress like he normally would have, and the black, linen bathrobe he snatched from his closet resulted in a broken hanger. When the poundings continued, he paused just long enough to don the robe and reach for the handgun he kept in the drawer of the nightstand beside his bed. Noting that the silencer was already firmly attached, Fine left his bedroom and crossed the living room to the front door. Now to see who was disturbing him at such an ungodly hour and how much trouble they were willing to get into.

On the other side of the door stood a stumpy man wearing at least three layers of winter-appropriate clothes, his head clearly too small for the beanie hat he wore on his bald head. Despite the way his fist was raised in determination to hammer on the door again, his expression was one of uncertainty, as if someone had left him like a baby on a doorstep, lost and abandoned. As if he couldn't be any more unappealing, the man also reeked strongly of cheap cigar smoke and fish. The Broker registered these things in an instant before he leveled the gun point blank at the man's forehead. The thug—and that's exactly what he was, sent by the man from two days ago, Fine had no doubt—froze, his eyes locked in their crossed position on the gun barrel.

"Can I help you?" the Broker said coolly. The man's chest suddenly heaved in panic. He looked close to hyperventilating.

"W-whoa, whoa, whoa, guy! E-easy!" said the goon hastily. He raised his hands—both empty of any weapon or threat—in surrender and took two retreating steps back. Gaining some distance away from the gun, the man's eyes uncrossed, but they didn't appear entirely clear. Now that he could gain a better profile of the thug, Fine noted his twitching hands, yellowing skin and eyes, and the way the glassy orbs fought to stay focused on any one thing. So, a thug _and _a drug addict. What a thing to be greeted with first thing in the morning.

"Answer me." The Broker jabbed the gun in the man's direction, silently reminding him to get on with whatever business he was here for.

"A-alright, alright, man! Just take it easy! Uh," the man stammered, throwing shifty glances around to double-check that they were alone in the hallway. "L-look, I was just told to come up here and see if a Sherman Fine lived in suite 206." His murky eyes darted to the number gleaming in cheap, gold paint on the half-open door behind Fine. "So, uh, you him?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Da boss."

Fine would have rolled his eyes if he were a less disciplined man. Instead, he simply said, "Yeah, I got that. What I don't have is who 'da boss' is supposed to be."

"Oh, well, uh, he's sorta new in town. Goes by the name E—uh—Enigma? Yeah, that's it. L-look, could ya lower yer gun, please? It's makin' me nervous."

A small sigh escaped his lips, but the Broker humored the request. The man before him still twitched noticeably, but he seemed to relax when eminent death was no longer staring him in the face.

"So what does Enigma need? I assume you're here about the deed for the Burnley place?"

"Uuuuh, well, I don't know nuthin' 'bout that. Hang on a minute. I'm supposed ta let him know that you're here."

The Broker tensed and tightened his hold on the gun when the thug brought something out of his thick but tattered coat pocket. At the sight of a flip phone—and not a gun as he'd assumed—in the man's hand, the Broker relieved the harsh grip he had on his gun. Nevertheless, he remained alert and couldn't seem to unclench his teeth as he watched the man fumble with the phone in his meaty hands. Instead of making a call, the goon was hurriedly texting away on his keypad. If there was _one_ thing the Broker could not tolerate, it was being kept from pertinent information about a potential business transaction.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. The thug jumped and looked at the Broker like he just remembered he was there.

"Ah, yeah, uh, sorry. Da boss never calls or accepts calls from nobody. Always wants us to text him. Fuckin' weird, right? But it's what he wants, so it's what we do."

So Enigma didn't make calls to people. Well. Didn't the Broker feel special?

Fine moved to return to his one-person suite—a cup of coffee sounded divine right about now—but the thug stopped him.

"Whoa, hang on! Da boss is supposed to reply if he's on his way or not."

"I'm not going anywhere." The Broker spared the thug a final glance. "Just knock once if he is, and get lost if he's not." The thug's protests failed to breach past the door that was closed with a snap in his face.

So, it was coffee first this morning. Already, Sherman was feeling unbalanced. He wanted to put on actual clothes before his "guest" arrived, but he couldn't bring himself to do that without taking a shower first. Allowing himself to be _that _vulnerable with a stranger in his home wasn't an option. Fine snapped the lid closed on the coffeemaker and then looked down at what he was wearing. It definitely wasn't fit for normal business—he wasn't even wearing _socks_ for Chrissake—but all he could do was hope Enigma was fine with bathrobe-chic. This early in the morning, Fine was rather indifferent to the whole thing. Of course, there was always the possibility that he wouldn't show…

A frantic knock and then the muffled sound of someone running away down the hall interrupted his thoughts. So he was alone again but, as he'd assumed, not for long. A shower was definitely out of the equation.

All the same, he kept his gun on him. Fine didn't know if his guest would react hostilely or become subdued at the sight of a firearm, but waltzing around unarmed in nothing but a bathrobe wasn't Fine's idea of a thrill. Maybe he could overpower Enigma in a physical confrontation, or maybe he couldn't. He'd never met the man, and he wasn't about to dick around and find out the hard way if it was the latter.

When the coffee was close to being finished, Fine left it alone only to retrieve his laptop from the bedroom. He turned it on, logged into his account, and made sure it was sufficiently charged before bringing it with him to the kitchen.

Only to discover that he was no longer alone. _And_ that he would have to make himself another cup of coffee, since a young man was already drinking his intended portion and sitting on the only barstool he had. At Sherman's entrance, the man perked up and swiveled in his direction.

"And the rumored Champion of Underworld Real Estate makes his appearance at last!" The man's eyes swept over Fine—bathrobe, bedhead, and all. Fine could tell the moment the man registered the gun in Fine's hand by the way an indulgent smile crawled across his face. "A little anticlimactic, I admit, but this brew makes up for that a little."

His voice came out bright yet derisive all at once, and Fine had no doubt that this truly was the man he'd spoken to over the phone two days ago.

"I think you're overacting there, my friend," the Broker said, coming around the island to begin his own brew of coffee. Again. "'Champion' is a bit much." He set the gun down by the sugar bowl; it wouldn't be needed, that was clear now. The atmosphere in the room was bar none the least hostile he'd ever experienced during a deal. In fact, he'd call it almost homey.

"Hmm, true," his guest admitted shortly, raising the mug in his hand in a salute. Fine scowled at the words scrawled in a messy handwritten print on the front, which proudly read, "I Came to WERK!" Needless to say, he and his agents would be doing something other than White Elephant for Christmas this year.

To take his mind off of his occasional bad luck, Sherman took the time to finally study his guest. The man in front of him looked nothing like the criminal Fine truly took him to be. With his neatly combed, dark auburn hair, stylish glasses, purple sweater vest, and green slacks, the man looked like he belonged in a coffee shop somewhere, broadcasting opinions to people who never asked for them.

It seemed, though, the man really didn't need the coffee shop for that. He'd done nothing but voice his true feelings about Fine, Gotham, and a host of other things without Fine's prompting. Something was off about it, though. While Fine was certain the man's feelings were genuine—for who could doubt that confidence he displayed?—Fine noted that it was strange for someone to repeatedly insist on one's own strengths and remind others of their failures. So the man was smart. Did he need to point that out to his audience with nearly every breath he took?

Apparently, Enigma did, and Fine couldn't help but wonder why. Was he constantly put down and held back as a child? Maybe his performance levels were compared without end to those of his peers, making the need to be _better _a priority that carried on into his adult life. Or maybe the man had a deep-seated inferiority complex he was attempting to bury. The possibilities were numerous, but Fine was certain of one thing: despite the man's boasting and put-downs, Sherman couldn't find it in him to be offended or angry. Not when the urge to laugh bubbled so near to the surface. It was all too amusing.

"Forgive the bathrobe, Mister…?" trailed the Broker, feigning ignorance. He wondered if the man would solely operate under the alias his thug had slipped out earlier, or if he would give him his real name. The way the thug had acted so unsure about his own employer's name made the Broker believe this was a new development. If it was possible to learn something—_anything_—definitive about Enigma, then he was willing to play as dumb as he needed to.

"Enigma, as I _know_ you're aware, Fine, so don't act more ignorant than I'm sure you already are. It bores me."

Well, there went that plan.

"Apologies, Mr. Enigma," the Broker amended. "As I was saying, just think of this as my Casual Friday." He didn't feel the need to add that the man had no right to judge the state of dress of the person whose home he'd just invaded. If Fine had stated this, the bite in his voice would jeopardize the deal for sure, and that was unacceptable. For the Broker, business was everything.

"From what my informants told me, I'm surprised you own anything other than a three-piece suit."

"Is that what they said? Pretty on point," the Broker offhandedly replied as he filled his coffee cup. His hands moved on autopilot as he tended to the milk and sugar in his drink. "This ratty thing is a well-kept secret of mine. I usually sleep in the nude, but what can I say? Winter in Gotham can be a real bitch."

Enigma didn't look a bit abashed. In fact, a cheeky smile lit up his face as he took another sip of coffee. "And they're already estimating that this winter will be one of the coldest Gotham's ever had."

"Well, naturally, of course."

Fine rubbed a hand tiredly across his face, wincing at the feel of tiny but rough pinpricks of hair against his fingers. He needed to shave. Again. It was becoming an almost everyday thing now…

For some reason, the Broker felt like stalling the deal. He was usually more direct, but something about Enigma prompted him to relax and enjoy himself. It wasn't often he felt this comfortable talking about nothing with others. Plus, hearing what the man could come up with to say was a riot.

"I'm actually somewhat astounded, Enigma, that someone as…intelligent as you claims to be associates with hired hands like the one I met today. The man looked incapable of tying his own shoelaces." _Now what do you have to say to that, smart ass?_

Enigma propped his head in one hand and set down the coffee mug to adjust his glasses with the other. He seemed to be thinking about his answer, but his movements were a bit too exaggerated. The term "overacting" fit him more than Fine originally thought.

"Let me see. How do I break this down for a simpleton like you? How about this? A popular saying is that sex sells, but I disagree. Money, now _that's _the thing that sells, wouldn't _you_ agree, Broker?" A soft snort escaped Fine at that. No arguments there, not when he was so comfortable with the profession he was in. Enigma continued, unhindered. "These cretins flock to it. Are willing to do or put up with anything for it. And fortunately, all I have to do is pay these idiots to gather information, not to be intelligent. I'm not about to waste my time teaching a fish to climb a tree when he's perfectly capable of swimming in the pond he always has."

"Very well said," the Broker replied, taking his first sip of coffee. The warmth passed through him, and all he could think was, _Bliss_. But the moment soon passed, and he placed his mug down on the table to pull his laptop over to them. "Now, we've had our coffee and our niceties. I doubt you came all this way for small talk, Enigma, so let's get serious. I have the blueprints of the property I described earlier if you want to look over them, make sure you like the place. I have a few photographs available as well, and if you wish to sign the deed today, I can make that happen. The property should be ready for you within the next five days."

"I need it tonight actually."

The Broker paused in his movements at the declaration. "Tonight?" That was intriguing. Christmas was still a little ways off, and wasn't that when Enigma had planned to reveal his extortion data to the public? "Why so soon? I know the reason goes beyond my business, but—"

"It certainly does, Broker," said Enigma. "Fortunately for me, it doesn't really make a difference whether you know what I'm up to or not. You couldn't stop it, even if you wanted to. Although," the bespectacled man trailed off, muttering to himself, "Black Mask may not be too pleased about it…"

_That_ pricked up Sherman's ears. "You're working with Black Mask?"

Enigma waved his hand in a blasé manner, as if the very idea was too far beneath him to humor. "It's a separate project. He wants the GCR towers rigged. Something about jamming the Batman's signal." Enigma shrugged carelessly. "Personally, I don't even understand why he wants to bother about some thug masquerading as a hero. But gaining access to the towers makes it easier for me to gather information over a larger network, so I agreed. What I can tell you for sure is that something big is happening on Christmas Eve, something with which the Batman will have his hands full. If nothing else, it's sure to be amusing. Any further prying, though, and I'm afraid you'll be forcing my hand, Broker."

Fine hardly thought that he'd been _prying_. Enigma offered that slew of information all on his own. But he couldn't think too much on what he'd let slip about Black Mask and the Batman, not when there were threats being made to him in his own home.

"And what hand is that, Mr. Enigma?" The Broker raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Are you going to blackmail me, too?"

"Maybe I found a little something on you, Fine, maybe I didn't. Do you want to risk finding out?"

Normally, Fine wouldn't have given two shits about whatever this punk had uncovered. He'd been hauled in for questioning a few times before with the GCPD, but they never charged him with anything. After all, selling property wasn't a crime in Gotham, even if the property would eventually and knowingly be used for illicit activities. If anything, the cops were trying to find concrete information that would finally lock away the worst of the worst in Gotham for good. But Fine wasn't a snitch by any means; the money didn't swing that way. As for Sherman himself, he usually got off on a mere technicality, and during the few times where certain deals looked like they'd be tougher to wish away, one of his clients usually had his back. Cops were being paid left and right to turn a blind eye to even worse crimes than what Fine could be accused of, so what was paying off another cop to ignore this charge in comparison?

Still, though, there _was_ that Maroni deal that went sour a few months back. A judge ended up getting his head blown off, and Fine had been there to see it. He'd learned a new meaning to the phrase "laying low" after that. And yet if any idealistic lawman found out he was there and was a witness to the crime, it could lead to all kinds of trouble and unpleasantness.

So the Broker raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Like we established before, it's not my business. Besides, it's not like I have anyone to tell."

"Then I fail to see any further relevance in this discussion, Fine, so tell me: can I have the place ready by tonight or not?"

The Broker thought for a moment. "For an additional 5K to the original offer of $32,000, sure."

Enigma scowled. "Why the increase? You _did _say you had all the necessities already available, yes?"

Fine fixed an apologetic look on his face. "I assure you I wasn't lying about that. I have it all here in fact." He patted his laptop with his hand twice. "But I was notified yesterday that the current owner isn't due to leave the premises anywhere between tomorrow and sometime next week. Now, this shouldn't affect you. If you want the place tonight, you'll have it tonight. It just means a couple of my people will have to go over there and…convince him to relocate _now_. Consider it a service charge."

"Wonderful." Enigma rolled his eyes and crossed his arms like an overgrown and petulant child who failed to get his way.

"Hardly something to be upset over," the Broker replied, allowing a smug smile to tug at his lips. "Weren't you the one that said money sells?"

Enigma heaved a sigh. "Yes, sometimes it's a real burden, being so much more percipient than the average primate."

"I can't imagine."

Fine opened his laptop, keeping an eye on Enigma as the young man rose from his seat. When all the man did was place his empty mug carefully in the sink, Fine shook his head, feeling like laughing at himself. For the Broker, there truly wasn't a thing as being too cautious, but Enigma had to be one of the most non-threatening clients he'd ever worked with. He was a nerd with a computer and a lot of lip, not some experienced killer. Still, Sherman made a note to avoid having deals made in his home in the future. Combining his private life with his professional one was fucking with his inner serenity in the worst way.

Refocusing his attentions on his computer screen, Fine began pulling up all the relevant documents on his laptop. At the same time, Enigma took to pacing around the room, taking in the outdated wallpaper lining the walls and the sparse belongings Fine had spread around the room. Aside from the television and the treadmill, there wasn't much of value to be found. The couch he owned was made of green velvet that may have looked lush once upon a time; now it appeared faded and spotty in places. Fortunately, Sherman was the only one in the room who knew about the gaping hole in the back of the couch, which he'd strategically placed against the wall. The table in front of the couch hosted a number of drink stains from spills and overflowed rims as well as an unsightly burn mark left over some years ago from one of his father's cigars. Funny. It took having a guest in his apartment for once to reveal these little blemishes. With the way business was going, though, perhaps it _was _time to trade in the family heirlooms for some newer models. At the very least, Sherman could say he kept the place tidy. He followed the old adage, "A place for everything and everything in its place" religiously.

"This is supposed to be a suite, right?" Enigma said, sounding none-too-convinced. Following his gaze to the fraying, off-white carpet that had come loose in places along one wall, Sherman could clearly see why he doubted it so strongly.

"They're _all_ suites," Sherman said, sending his files to print via his wireless printer. From his bedroom, he heard the soft whirring of the device starting up. "That's how they sell these places. Haven't been renovated in over 20 years, I think. I was lucky to even get one with this." He knocked on the island in the kitchen.

Enigma snorted. "Such creature comforts. How quaint."

"Thou shalt not covet thy broker's kitchen bar, Enigma."

The man laughed. "And here I was, believing you were supposed to be some dour jackass. Either I've caught you on a good day, or you've allowed your reputation to be misleading."

"It's a little hard being intimidating in a bathrobe. I've given up on that image for the day, but I'll make it up to you next time."

"Oh? How presumptuous. Who said I'll ever need your services again after the holiday?"

Fake surprise lifted the Broker's countenance. "You mean you're _planning _on getting caught and put away for life?"

A sneer curled along Enigma's face, and his eyes flashed with contempt. "I _won't_ get caught, and I _won't_ be back. I told you: I'm not a bad guy like you or your other ill-fated associates. I happen to want to change this city for good."

"And I'm sure it will be, if you or Black Mask have your ways." Fine heard the printer go quiet, so he closed his laptop and moved to retrieve the documents. Enigma's voice called reprovingly after him.

"I thought I told you to drop the Black Mask thing!" He seemed more annoyed at being potentially overshadowed by the mob king than anything else. Now, _that _was quaint.

"Last time, I promise," he called back, grabbing the paperwork and a spare pen. And Sherman Fine kept his promises. Usually.

Returning to the kitchen, the Broker sorted the documents accordingly. In one stack rested the offer from the original owner and details about the building. Another held the few blueprints and pictures the Broker had available of the place as well as a map of where it was situated in Burnley. The last stack held the deed and certain permissions Enigma would need to allow before the Broker could legally act on his behalf. Everything else, Fine would take care of himself.

His auburn-haired guest resumed his seat on the barstool and pulled the documents closer. Enigma's cobalt gaze sharpened on the blueprints first. He trailed his finger along the pathways and dimensions of the hideout, pausing to tap on certain rooms and skimming over others. Fine left him to it. The man's mind was practically emitting a hum into the room, he was thinking so rapidly. The Broker would probably be better off talking to his coffeemaker rather than try to disturb Enigma from his planning process. So he did exactly that by getting another cup of coffee started instead.

A few minutes and a warm cup of caffeine later, Enigma emerged out of whatever state he'd submerged himself into.

"Everything seems in order, exactly as you said," stated Enigma, fixing the Broker with a stare that still managed to be so keen even through the lenses of his glasses. "So where do I sign?"

The Broker brought the document forward, and to his ever-increasing surprise, the man actually sat there and _read _the thing down to the fine print. _Especially _the fine print. The man really was as intelligent as he boasted. How many times had Fine been through this exact situation and the client signed the thing without even a moment's hesitation? Countless by this point. Fortunately for them, the Broker wasn't the kind of malignant or sadistic person that would try to trap someone via some unread Terms of Agreement. That, and he actually enjoyed living.

Eventually, Enigma made a small sound of approval, signifying that he'd found whatever he was looking for. Fine handed him the pen, watching as he signed the page with a flourish. A true John Hancock. It was by far the largest thing on the page.

And he'd signed it with his alias, lovely. Fine supposed he'd gotten to the part allowing for pseudonyms in place of legal names. He'd never regretted being so nice before.

Sherman took the signed deed, blueprints, and pictures off the table. "I'll need to make copies of these for you, but you can take the rest there, sir."

"Yes, I figured as much," replied the man sarcastically, before withdrawing a smartphone from his pocket and rapidly typing away at it. Fine gladly left man and machine to bond while he had a similar experience with his copier.

Not even five minutes later, the Broker handed Enigma the duplicates then said, "All that's left is to settle the matter of my payment. I prefer it to be wired to my—"

"Checking account with Gotham Merchants Bank? Already taken care of. Check it for yourself if you don't believe me."

Why was he surprised anymore? "At the risk of offending you, I think I will."

Enigma didn't seem bothered by it at all, as he merely went back to scrolling on his phone.

A high-res picture of the bank's Seasons Greetings sign stretched across the bank's homepage. Quickly signing into his account and answering the security questions, Sherman pulled up his recent transactions.

And there it was. Deposited into his account just a few minutes earlier was his commissioned payment along with the extra $5,000 he'd be due to split with his enforcers. They could check tonight whether the owner had been paid his due as well or not. Knowing Enigma's efficiency, however, the Broker was certain loose ends wouldn't be an issue.

He closed his laptop with an air of finality. That was it, then.

Sherman said as much.

"Excellent." Enigma sprang from his seat and pocketed his phone. After withdrawing a suitcase—which Fine hadn't even noticed he'd had with him—from its resting place on the floor, the man gathered all his paperwork and stuffed them inside it. Before Fine could get a good look of what else was inside, Enigma closed the suitcase and clicked the locks shut. "Glad that's over with."

"You're welcome, Mr. Enigma," the Broker said pointedly. Enigma rolled his eyes and crossed the room to the front door.

"Yes, yes, thank you very much for all your help and all that," he replied hurriedly, waving a hand in an exaggerated gesture. "Not so much for the conversation, but I didn't really have my hopes up about that. So no harm, no foul."

"I should be the one thanking you," the Broker admitted before taking a long draught on his coffee. "You've given me something to look forward to on Christmas morning with your little escapade."

"Ho, ho, ho," replied the man dryly as he opened the door. "So glad to be your source of entertainment, which even I realize is pretty pathetic for you."

Sherman smiled. "Depends on how you look at it. Best of luck with all the blackmailing and with that other thing I'm not supposed to mention."

"Don't need it, thanks." And Enigma slammed the door behind him, his retreating footsteps growing fainter and fainter before fading away completely.

Sherman Fine's suite seemed abnormally quite and empty now that Enigma's loud and egotistical personality had left it.

Fine released a sigh of relief and downed the rest of his coffee.

He could finally take a shower, have breakfast, and _relax_. And on top of that, he'd just gotten paid again.

Who knew that a day could begin so far from his usual routine and still turn out so well?

* * *

**A/N: Pretty big words from a man who was forced to schmooze around in nothing but a bathrobe, Fine. If you can't tell already, I'm going to be putting this man through some pretty awkward and interesting situations. Because that's just the kind of writer I am i.e. an asshole. I hope you enjoyed this one. Please don't be shy about it one way or another. Let me know. I'm a deeply lonely person.**

**As always, if you have any Rogues or other characters to suggest, I'm still accepting them. I've got most accounted for, but in the event that I don't have yours in with this story already, I'll do my best to fit them in.**


	3. Ch 2: Broker, Threatened

**A/N: I'm so excited by the attention this story is getting! I honestly didn't know what to expect, given that Sherman Fine is such a minor character in the Batman mythos. Must be that Rogues Gallery appeal, eh? (Don't blame you for that. That's why I'm writing this). All the same, I hope to make Fine into an interesting character in his own right, and I hope you'll all enjoy the journey I have for him, too.**

**Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, and followed this story! I love you all!**

**Now let's continue...**

* * *

Fandom: Batman (Arkham Origins/Asylum/City)

Title: _The Broker_

Chapter 2: Broker, Threatened

* * *

But relaxation did not come to Sherman Fine as he'd hoped for that day. He'd just gotten out of the shower when he heard the tail end of his phone's ringtone sounding off from his bedroom.

"Ah, fuck."

It was undoubtedly a business call; he could tell by the specific ringtone it emitted. But he decided he'd endured quite enough indignities that morning. He was not about to commit some hostile, real estate endeavor buck-ass nude on top of it all, even in the privacy of his own home. Which was no longer truly private after this morning, now that he thought of it. So he toweled himself dry, listening with growing impatience and frustration until the phone became silent again.

Fine slipped back into his bedroom, rifling through closets and drawers for clothes to wear. He'd just put on a pair of black slacks and was reaching for a white undershirt when his phone rang again. Same ringtone, same insistency.

Sherman sighed, "Someone's certainly keen." He let the phone ring itself into a stupor again.

When he was finally what he considered decent, he plucked the phone from his nightstand and immediately pulled up his missed calls list. Sherman's brow rose in surprise. His shower hadn't cost him to miss just one or two missed calls but _five_, all from the same person. It was one of his agents: Emmanuel Viti. Now that was telling.

Fine wasn't the type to take luxuriously long showers nor was Viti the type to bug him like this just to chat. Something was either going wonderfully right or terribly wrong.

Sherman only hesitated to apply his characteristic dark shades—feeling himself slip more easily into his Broker persona, if one could even call it that—before he called the man back.

Viti must have been staring at his phone, because Fine's call was answered before the first ring even finished.

"Mr. Fine! Oh, thank _God!_ I thought your phone was dead or something."

The man's voice was faintly accented, as Fine expected from the native Bostonian. What Fine didn't expect to hear from Viti's usual relaxed tone was an undercurrent of alarm and tension. His breathless response gave Fine the impression that the man had been running—something Fine doubted, given his asthma—and that might have been his biggest tip. Viti wasn't running from somebody, but he wanted to. Badly. His body was screaming at him in panic to do it, but he couldn't with his condition, so he did the only thing he could: he'd called Fine, half-terrified. And that meant Fine's latter hypothesis was right.

Something terribly wrong, indeed.

"What's going on, Manny?" Maybe keeping up the appearance of familiarity would soothe the man enough for him to be able to coherently tell Fine what was going on.

"Cobblepot, boss. _That's _what's going on."

Fine was careful not to heave his agitated sigh into the phone.

"I would tell you to say no more, given what we know of Cobblepot and his reputation, but obviously there's something else. We haven't exactly done business with the imp before."

Fine was putting that lightly. Of all the criminals in Gotham, Fine shared nothing close to affection with Oswald Cobblepot. There was no exact reason or explanation as to why Fine felt the feelings that he did. The man just, quite simply, utterly revolted him. Always had, even before...

A shaky laugh came from Manny's end. "No, we haven't. But it looks like our fasting of penguin meat is ending, sorry to say."

Fine had no desire to further contemplate the imagery the words "penguin meat" inspired with their relation to Oswald Cobblepot. As it was, it would seem that he would be doing business with the emerging crime lord after all.

The Broker had contacted him before, of course, though he had tried to forget such a thing had ever occurred. It had been the professional, entrepreneur thing to do at the time. Fine was very proactive about these things. It was far better to find your clients before they found you, especially if this morning with Enigma was any indication. And with other mobsters, this method worked quite well.

Unfortunately, the Broker's initial phone call with Oswald "The Penguin" Cobblepot had gone something like this:

_ "'Ello? Who the hell is this? Don't you know how busy I am? If you've got sumthin' to say, ya better say it before I hunt you down and take the mickey out of ya."_

_ "Mr. Cobblepot, this is Sherman Fine, the sole broker and real estate agency for the criminal underworld. I just wanted to make contact and let you know that if you are ever in need of my services—"_

_ "Fuck off."_

_ End call._

Certainly not the best way to begin a long-term business relationship, which was why Fine was growing more curious as to why the stocky bird was contacting him now.

He didn't have to further probe Manny for the reason why. It was willingly offered. In a rush.

"Got a call from one of his secretaries. A, uh, Candy? Drew the short straw in the name's stakes on that one, if you ask me. Apparently, Cobblepot lost a bid on a ship he was looking to use for his holiday pit fits—and other illegal things, I gathered. I didn't ask—and all at the last minute to Bruce Wayne. Yeah, I know. Bruce fucking Wayne! Absolutely furious, apparently. The broad said she got one of our contact numbers from Alberto Falcone," he said, then grumbled, "And _I_ was that lucky number."

As fascinating as Viti's poor luck was, more important matters caught the Broker's attention. "Alberto? Since when are they so buddy-buddy?"

"Your guess's as good as mine, sir, but part of me highly doubts ol' Cobblepot's invited Alberto over to swap spiced cider recipes for the holidays. In other words—"

"We don't wanna know."

"Exactly, sir. And I'm sorry for calling so much, but I'm freaking out a little bit. As I said, I was talking to one of his secretaries, right? And then _he _gets on the phone and starts yelling at me, saying shit like if I can't find him a new ship pronto, he'll hunt me down, carve up my spleen, and send it to my family as a gift of Christmas meat!"

Typical Cobblepot, making threats like that. Unfortunately, he was becoming known as someone who backed up his bark with plenty of bite, though he himself usually wasn't the one to chomp down.

Fine couldn't resist. "Well, _he_ won't, but one of his goons will." At Emmanuel's sharp intake of breath, the Broker moved to set the man more at ease. "I'm just joking. I know residential properties are more your specialty, so I'll take care of this."

"W-what? You will? Oh, thank you, sir! I was really afraid I'd have to change the song from 'a partridge in a pear tree' to 'a knife to the left kidney' for Christmas this year, and we wouldn't want that for me, right?"

The Broker cringed at Viti's off-key singing. Never mind that the song was horrible enough in tune. _Indulge, indulge_. "No, Manny, we wouldn't want that at all. What else did this Candy girl say? Did she mention any specifics of what her boss is looking for?" Fine was already in the kitchen, notepad and pen in hand while he booted up his computer. Time was not on their side in this instance, and if this deal required a bit of extensive research, he needed to be ready for that.

Viti went into business-mode immediately, quickly delivering nothing but the facts. "Just that he's looking for something big, something that can support his fights and, uh, _business _operations, whatever that means. Again, don't want to know. Anyway, he doesn't want anything like a yacht. Knowing Cobblepot, the more intimidating, the better. Maybe-I dunno-a fucking barge?"

Manny really didn't know his ships. Ship types, uses, and jargon would be something Fine would have to bring up to all the agents in a future meeting, because hell, who knows? Maybe a Cobblepot would actually start a trend.

Fine scratched all of Manny's data furiously on the notepad he always had for offers like this that required such quick note taking. "Got it. Do me a favor, though. Leave me the number that contacted you, and call the lady back and tell her I'll be calling her in about an hour. I've got to research this one; it's been awhile since I've worked with ships. Just drop my name, and go about your usual business. You should be in the clear after that. Just—uh—don't take any detours today."

"You got it," Manny said, a twinge of unease lacing through his voice again, but he hide it under a new show of confidence. "Will do, sir. Thanks again."

As soon as Fine got the number, the conversation ended, and Fine worked with the smooth precision of a machine. For every offer he found, he followed up with a call and swiftly ended it when he saw that the property wouldn't please the client like he knew it needed to. Instead of becoming discouraged with every possibility crossed out, the Broker became more and more determined. He always appreciated a challenge every now and again. He just didn't appreciate that the life of one of his agents was at stake.

Oh, well, welcome to Gotham. Enjoy your stay and wear a helmet, chump.

With only minutes to spare, Fine pinned it down to three offers that could work for Cobblepot. If luck was on his side, the ol' British bird would be appeased by one of them, and nobody on his end would die today.

Time to get to work.

The phone rang twice before a smooth, lilting female voice answered. "Candy speaking. How may I help you?"

"Ms. Candy, this is Sherman Fine." Maintaining politeness with a person who had a pseudonym like Candy—and Fine truly believed that was the case here—might have been difficult for some, but the Broker carried on unflinchingly like the professional he was. "I'm calling about the property arrangement Mr. Cobblepot is looking to make."

"Oh, hey, baby," Candy replied casually, suddenly seeming warmer than what her previous business-like tone implied. Almost playful. The Broker's expression never changed, though he began to tap a slow rhythm on the tile of the island. Not impatiently. It was a focusing mechanism he used often when conducting matters by phone. It kept him grounded. "Mr. Cobblepot's been waiting for your call. I hope for your sake you have something he'll be happy about."

"I believe I do. Can you patch me through?"

"Will do. Best of luck, Mr. Fine. You sound like a guy who's got a clear head on his shoulders. I'd hate to see it in one of Mr. Cobblepot's displays after this."

Fine didn't have a response to that. Luckily for him, he didn't have to come up with one. The call was passed on, and Fine changed his rhythm to one even slower, to match the rings that came every few seconds.

As soon as a rough, angry voice answered the phone, that rhythm picked up again.

"Who the hell is this?"

Jumbled, indistinct noises and clattering came to Fine's ear through the line, but he remained focused.

_Stick to the matter at hand, remain in control, and no one gets hurt. _

So he did, wasting no time in addressing the matter directly.

"You want a ship, correct, Mr. Cobblepot? A little different, I admit, but hardly impossible for a broker like me."

"Sherman Fine," the Penguin drawled in his Cockney accent. "How nice a'ya ta get in touch so quickly. Glad to know threatin' yer underlings gets your attention."

"Unnecessary, really. You could have just called."

"And spoil all my fun? Don't be so boring, Fine-but you can work on your personality later. That is, if what you have to say appeases my temper."

_Uses anger to mask his own insecurities, perhaps? The man definitely has a lot to prove and make up for, if his stature along with his parents' history is any indication. _

"I have a few here that I think will suit you." Fine tapped a few keys on his laptop, bringing up on his screen the offer and photographs for the first ship. "There's an empty vessel called _The Mirage_ available, but we'd need to go through Sionis Industries to procure it."

Cobblepot let out a sound of disgust. "Bugger Sionis. I neva' liked that jumped-up little shit, and soon I 'ave an inkling the feelin' will be mutual."

_So Cobblepot really isn't fucking around with his arms deals. Looking to move in on the mob scene already. Between him, Sionis, and Falcone scrambling for power, Gotham may just experience a full-blown gang war again. Well._

_Won't that be nice?_

Fine knew better than to voice any of this aloud, unlike how he attempted to wheedle information out of Enigma. Besides not being fit conversation for this particular client while he switched tabs between offers, there were some underworld dealings that it was unspoken of to not snitch about. Roman Sionis actually being the Black Mask was one of those things. The Broker had never seen the man or any evidence of the connection himself, but there was something to be said about rumors in Gotham City. The more they were spoken of—the more they persisted—then the less likely they were actually true. However, the less likely they were spoken of, the more effort people put in to keeping people quiet… Well, those kinds of actions spoke louder than any truth or evidence could. Much could be said about the underworld and the way everyone went at each other's throats, but there was something strangely poetic about how everyone—from mob bosses to _capos_ to drug addicts—all banded together to keep the general public ignorant and, more importantly, under control. Fine was willing to bet that the GCPD and even the elusive Batman assisted with that structure, too, the police by bribes and the Bat by…well, his own sense of self-importance, Fine supposed.

"Well, then, there's also _The Imperator_. It's owned by the Falcone fami—" A harsh laugh rang in Fine's ear, cutting off his speech.

"You're quite the comedian, Brokah," Cobblepot replied as soon as he composed himself. "I should call upon you more often."

Given how the Falcones were trying to keep the peace around here, Cobblepot's reaction at their name surprised Fine. As far as he knew, carrying out a deal like this with the Falcones would be infinitely easier than dealing with Sionis, especially since the buyer would be Cobblepot. Unless there was something the Penguin wasn't telling him.

Cobblepot gave the answer to that before Fine could humor asking, and he sounded all too happy about what he had to say.

"Ya see, I highly doubt ol' Carmine will be too pleased to do dealings wit' me after he sees what I've done to his spawn Alberto 'ere. Say 'ello, son!"

Through the phone and a curious noise that sounded like an electric charge, a muffled cry of pain reached Fine's ears followed by a few indecipherable words. What Fine didn't mistake was a solid hit against flesh, swiftly followed by another shout of pain.

_"Not in the face, you idiots!" _Penguin admonished someone with him, wherever he was. His tone soon turned into what, Fine supposed, must have been Cobblepot's impression of being soothing. _"We're just tryin' to talk to ya, lad. No need to smart off at me. And if you just remembah to tell the ol' man everything we've been talkin' about, then this'll all turn into nuthin' more than a bad memory. You'll see."_

_Is he talking to Alberto, _Fine thought, _or to someone else? And if it is Alberto, then what is he supposed to pass on to Carmine?_

Sherman's fingers resumed their tapping at a more intensified pace.

After having his share of fun, the Penguin returned to the phone. "Rude little shit, innit he? Now what d'ya say we stop pissin' around each otha, and you do your bloody job before I send my boys to encourage ya like young Mr. Falcone 'ere?"

Fine resisted releasing a tired sigh, switching his attention from tapping on the island to typing away on his laptop.

_Only one ship left, Fine, and your client is rude, impatient, and volatile and growing more so every second. So dress it up nicely and sell, sell, sell._

Muddy brown eyes quickly combing over the information on his screen, the Broker was relieved to find that this deal didn't have a hint of mob relation to its name and data. If Cobblepot were going to find a problem with this one, it'd be because he, Fine, failed to sell it as is, with all its perfections and all its flaws.

Now things were getting a little fun.

_Let's see how you like this one, Happy Feet._

"It's _The Final Offer_, then, Mr. Cobblepot," said the Broker.

"You can consider it as such."

An amused smile broke out on Fine's face at the misunderstanding. And for whatever reason, it was that moment that made him utterly sure of himself. He even removed his sunglasses and didn't once break character.

"No, sir, I mean _The Final Offer _is a ship. What I believe will soon be _your_ ship. It's currently up for sale by a gang of Somali pirates. Seems the original owner, a Mr. L. Jones according to the report, christened it _The Olivia B. Meredith _before she was seized. But given the situation, I believe _The Final Offer _suits it better."

"Aw, a little sumthin' for me t' remember ya by, Brokah? Ah'm touched." There was a barely detectable steel edge to the Penguin's sarcasm, but Fine had been listening for it. Hoping for it, in fact.

_I think I've got him._

Cobblepot continued, his voice growing rougher by the syllable like a chainsaw struggling to cut through a thick tree trunk. "Ah've an idea, though. Why don't ya tell me how the damn thing suits _my business needs_ and leave all the bloody christenin' to me!"

_Oh, yeah, I've got him. He wouldn't be this agitated otherwise._

Since Cobblepot couldn't see him, Fine was sure to put as much contriteness in his voice as possible. And a smile, for good measure. "Of course you're right, Mr. Cobblepot."

A few keystrokes later, the Broker had all the specs he needed pulled up in front of him.

"You'll be pleased to note that the ship already comes equipped with a casino. Mr. Jones was something of a gambler, and not a very good one, hence why the vessel is up for sale. Or it was, before the pirates got to it. It used to be a cruise liner but was adapted in recent years to suit more industrial purposes. But I believe there is plenty of room to host your ammunition sales and fighting contests."

"Now, who was the naughty boy who told you about those, Brokah?"

"Did I say 'ammunition sales and fighting contests'? Forgive me, sir, that's hearsay about another client I have yet to do business with. What I meant was, this ship would perfectly suit your cocktail parties and private gambling ventures, which is perfectly legal in the state of New York."

Fine didn't wait to see if the Penguin was amused by his cheek or not. He had to keep pushing, especially since he was now entering the tricky part of this particular negotiation.

"However, you should know that the ship seems to have sustained damage during the seizure, but it is by no means inoperative," Fine rushed to say before assuming a more professional tone. "In fact, I'm certain you can site those damages as a means to purchase the vessel at an inexpensive price to you. The Somalis were going to sell it for parts, anyway, so both parties should come away better with this deal than without it. One gets a ship, the other an easy sale. Shall I make contact?"

"No."

_No? _All movement ceased from Fine. Surely he hadn't said… _No?_

Sherman clenched his free hand into a fist, only to release it at the feel of sweat moistening his palms. Had they been this sweaty the whole time? Distractedly, he wiped his hand on his pants, only to switch the phone over to said hand to begin the ritual again with the other.

He had never failed in a sale before. Especially not to one of Gotham's criminal elite. You simply _couldn't _fail them, not if you wanted to remain a living testament to your business. But of course, Cobblepot had to go and make this difficult. Just another reason to detest the man.

Fine couldn't even take consolation in the prospect that only Manny's life would be at stake here. After this exchange, Fine was sure Cobblepot would put a hit on his life, too. The thought of Manny's death was sad, even a little appalling—Sherman genuinely liked the man, and he didn't necessarily have strong feelings like that for many people. But the thought of himself dying because of this? Intolerable.

But the sheer fact remained that he didn't have any offers left… Where did he go wrong? Perhaps he could salvage what was left of this sinking ship of a deal.

"I'm afraid I don't under—"

"Idiot! _You _won't be contactin' anybody," Cobblepot interrupted, and the man's bark of a growl sounded as loud as a firecracker in Fine's ear. "Not until I get my most trusted second opinion on the matter, and maybe not even then. A man in my position can't be too careful, you understand?"

Fine didn't really understand. He was feeling off-balance again. Was he selling this thing or not?

_Claim back control, goddammit._

"I—can contact whomever you need me to, sir. Who is your second?"

"Now we're gettin' somewhere. I'll send my girl Tracey your way. Bring all yer little papers and meet her tonight at, shall we say, ten?" Cobblepot gave Fine an address, which the man was quick to scratch down on his notepad. Sherman didn't recognize the location right away, and it didn't take much to realize that that was probably the Penguin's intention.

"Don't cock this one up, Fine. If yer so much as five minutes late, then Ah'm givin' Tracey the go-ahead to shoot you on sight. If ya manage to do that right, and if Tracey likes what she sees, then we can settle this deal nice and neat soon enough. So show up prepared, and woe unto you if you decide to double-cross me."

Cobblepot was back to plain threats again. The Broker noted with no short amount of disbelieving relief that a sense of normalcy had returned to the conversation.

And it looked like he would be able to make this sale after all. This Tracey woman sounded like she'd be much easier to deal with than Cobblepot would be on his best day. It was the name that did it again, honestly.

_Better than Candy._

"I can assure you that I'm on your side, sir," replied Fine reassuringly as he replaced his sunglasses back on his face. "The side of the law has never done a thing for me."

"You say that ta all your dates, don't ya?"

Fine didn't have a chance to formulate a response before a dial tone met his ear.

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Twenty-four hours later found Fine sleeping in much later than usual, nursing a splitting headache courtesy of Tracey Buxton. Whether it was caused by her grating accent—even more grating that Cobblepot's; it was unbelievable—or the surprisingly strong hit to his head she'd delivered, he couldn't tell. It happened when he'd insisted upon attaching Cobblepot's name to the ship's deed—apparently a first for Oswald. He hadn't even gotten a chance to tell her that Cobblepot could sign it with his pseudonym or any other of his choosing, before she swung at him, screaming that she would shoot him for trying to pin down her boss in some shady dealing for the cops to one day use against him. Or something like that. Through the pounding and the pain and the sudden bout of _rage_, Fine had trouble focusing. He felt pissed enough to go so far as to return the favor and knock the woman to the ground. Fortunately—_Fortunately?—_the bird himself had been listening in on their conversation through a transmitter, derailing Fine's violent urges before he made the stupid mistake of employing them. The Penguin none too gently told Tracey to "leave the wanker alone and sign the damn papers," and just like that, it was over.

If he never had to work with that bunch again, he'd be the luckiest man on earth.

_Seriously, Sherman. Never again. Manny's on his own next time if it's the bird._

If only, Fine sighed, he could actually stand behind that statement. He would most likely work with the Penguin again.

The almost indecipherable signature on his copy of the deed told him so. If that weren't enough, the ship's sudden appearance in the docks of Gotham's Amusement Mile three days later caused a big enough stir that even the GCN covered it. And word soon reached Fine's ears of a big pit fight happening on Christmas Eve down in the boiler deck. All applicants need apply with fists, not paper.

Out of curiosity, Fine strolled near the docks on one of his lunch breaks to see the vessel that he had only had a glimpse of through blueprints and half-blurred pictures. Quite a few men strolled about, most looking innocent by carrying out typical duties required of deckhands as their breaths puffed out in white steam in front of them.

Fine knew better than to assume that was what they were really doing.

All the same, Fine stopped in his tracks when he finally spotted the name of the ship on its bow, quickly losing interest in the people around him. He no longer felt the wind chill that had been assaulting him the moment he walked outside. The hotdog he was eating burned his mouth, but he couldn't find the will to continue chewing to swallow it, and not just because it was the only thing keeping him warm.

In glistening, white paint—paint that looked undeniably applied just recently—were a mere two words, of which the Broker himself could claim originality for.

_Final Offer._

"Huh," Fine murmured to himself around a mouthful of hotdog, watching his breath rush upward in a wispy cloud. He couldn't help but add, somewhat peevishly, under his breath, " It's '_The _Final Offer,' you dick."

So the Penguin steals a name in exchange for a signature.

_Well_, Fine shrugged, _that's business for you_.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry, this took a little longer than I wanted. As much fun as it was to write for him, for some reason, the Penguin was giving me trouble. How like him. I also went against my better judgment and decided to try and write his dialect, even though I know that doing so is a big no-no now in writing. Dialects can be extremely difficult to read, not to mention annoying. But I hope that I did it in a way here that wasn't too bad. I really only wanted to bring attention to his accent in such a way that it reminds the reader that-according to the Arkham series-Oswald spent much of his life in England as opposed to Gotham. He's the outsider-no, more like the big fish making a splash in an already piranha-filled pond. And he really is starting to succeed here in Origins, which I thought was cool to see in the game.**

**Also, fun fact: According to the Arkham wiki page, Oswald Cobblepot-as a means to protect himself-has never attached his name to any of his properties, except for one: _The Final Offer_. So that was fun to play with here. A possible liability, if it weren't for the fact that the ship completely vanishes after the events of Origins. (And also that the Broker conveniently destroys the documents after it's clear the ship is gone. Long live the Gotham rumor mill.) My guess is, Cobblepot cut his loses with the ship and sunk it. It was already heavily damaged in Origins, and after Christmas, it served its purpose, so why keep it? This may have been where plans for The Iceburg Lounge started to develop, too.**

**Hope you guys liked this one! Let me know what you think!**


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